Part 3

Sergeant Blue of the Mounted Police was a so-so kind of a guy; He swore a bit, and he lied a bit, and he boozed a bit on the sly; But he held the post at Snake Creek Bend for country and home and God, And he cursed the first and forgot the rest--which wasn't the least bit odd.

Now the life of the North West Mounted Police breeds an all-round kind of man; A man who can jug a down-South thug when he rushes the red-eye can; A man who can pray with a dying bum or break up a range stampede-- Such are the men of the Mounted Police and such are the men they breed.

The snow lay deep at the Snake Creek post and deep to east and west, And the Sergeant had made his ten-league beat and settled down to rest In his two-by-four that they called a "post," where the flag flew overhead, And he took a look at his monthly mail, and this is the note he read:

"To Sergeant Blue of the Mounted Police at the post of Snake Creek Bend, From U. S. Marshal of County Blank, greetings to you, my friend, They's a team of toughs give us the slip, though they shot up a couple of blokes, And we reckon they's hid in Snake Creek Gulch and posin' as farmer folks.

"They's as full of sin as a barrel of booze and as quick as a cat with a gun. So if you happen to hit their trail be first to start the fun; And send out your strongest squad of men and round them up if you can, For dead or alive we want them here. Yours truly, Jack McMann."

And Sergeant Blue sat back and smiled, "Ho, here is a chance of game! Folks 'round here have been so good that life is getting tame; I know the lie of Snake Creek Gulch--where I used to set my traps-- I'll blow out there to-morrow and I'll bring them in--perhaps."

Next morning Sergeant Blue, arrayed in farmer smock and jeans, In a jumper sleigh he had made himself set out for the evergreens That grow on the bank of Snake Creek Gulch by a homestead shack he knew, And a smoke curled up from the chimney-pipe to welcome Sergeant Blue.

"Aha, and that looks good to me," said the Sergeant to the smoke, "For the lad that owns this homestead shack is East in his wedding-yoke; There are strangers here and I'll bet a farm against a horn of booze That they are the bums that are predestined to dangle in a noose."

So he drove his horse to the shanty door and hollered a loud "Good-day," And a couple of men with fighting-irons came out beside the sleigh, And the Sergeant said, "I'm a stranger here and I've driven a weary mile; If you don't object I'll just sit down by the stove in the shack awhile."

So the Sergeant sat and smoked and talked of the home he had left down East, And the cold, and the snow, and the price of land, and the life of man and beast, But all of a sudden he broke it off with, "Neighbors, take a nip? There's a horn of the best you'll find out there in my jumper, in the grip."

So one of the two went out for it, and as soon as he closed the door The other one staggered back as he gazed up the nose of a forty-four, But the Sergeant wasted no words with him, "Now, fellow, you're on the rocks, And a noise as loud as a mouse from you and they'll take you out in a box."

So he fastened the bracelets to his wrists and his legs with some binder-thread, And he took his knife and he took his gun and he rolled him onto the bed; And then as number two came in he said, "If you want to live, Put up your dukes and behave yourself or I'll make you into a sieve."

And when he had coupled them each to each, and laid them out on the bed, "It's cold, and I guess we'd better eat before we go," he said. So he fried some pork and he warmed some beans, and he set out the best he saw, And they ate thereof, and he paid for it, according to British law.

That night in the post sat Sergeant Blue with paper and pen in hand, And this is the word he wrote and signed and mailed to a foreign land: "To U. S. Marshall of County Blank, greetings I give to you; My squad has just brought in your men, and the squad was "Sergeant Blue."

_There are things unguessed, there are tales untold, in the life of the great lone land, But here is a fact that the prairie-bred alone may understand, That a thousand miles in the fastness the fear of the law obtains, And the pioneers of justice were the "Riders of the Plains."_

ALKALI HALL

When Lord Landseeker came out West to have a look around, And spend a little money if the right thing could be found, He hadn't breathed the prairie air more than a day or two Until he was the centre of a philanthropic crew Who sought to show His Lordship all the shortcuts to success (Though why they should have troubled, His Lordship couldn't guess, For each was losing money, as he candidly confessed, Which seemed to be a fashion with the dealers in the West).

Thus His Lordship grew suspicious that his "friends" would turn him down, And he quietly bought a ticket to a little country town; But he didn't know the message that was flashed along the wire To a simple country dealer in the land of his desire; And it read: "Look out for Goggles, he'll be with you this a. m." And the crowd around the station--well, he merely smiled to them, And thought it jolly decent they'd assemble, don'tcherknow, And file along behind him as they followed, in a row.

The snow had fallen softly all the calm November night, And the morning found the praires with a covering of white; But His Lordship took a citizen who "happened" in his way, And they drove into the country for the most part of the day, Until they reached a section that was flat and free from stone, And the citizen remarked about a fellow he had known Who offered thirty dollars for this section in the fall, But the owner wanted forty, or he wouldn't sell at all.

Then His Lordship drove across it, and it seemed to catch his eye, And he whispered to the driver, "That's the section I will buy;" So in town they found the owner, who was very loath to sell, But he finally consented, if His Lordship wouldn't tell That the price was forty dollars by the acre; this agreed, A lawyer drew the papers and His Lordship got the deed, And he sailed across the ocean with the satisfying thought That he'd followed his own judgment in the bargain he had bought.

The winter snows had vanished and the spring was growing late, When Lord Landseeker came again to view his real estate, And he drove out in a buggy to where his section lay, And his heart was very happy as he smoked along the way Till the section burst upon them, and he scarce believed his sight, For the land lay in the sunshine, flashing back a snowy white . . . . . And His Lordship stooped and felt it, and he heaved a little sigh, As the knowledge dawned upon him that his land was--_alkali!_

His Lordship did some thinking as they journeyed back to town, And his wonted happy features were o'ershadowed with a frown; But he neither crawled nor blustered, neither bluffed nor swore nor kicked, (For the men from little England never know when they are licked), But he advertised for tenders for construction on the land, And the buildings he erected were the best he could command; With a hundred rooms for students, and quarters for the staff, And the workmen often wondered what made His Lordship laugh!

In the papers of Old England there appeared a little ad, For the benefit of parents whose sons were going bad; "Teach your boys the art of farming in the great Canadian West; Our instruction is unrivalled, our curriculum the best; There's a grate in every chamber and a bath in every hall, And a full dress-suited dinner every ev'ning, free to all; There is tennis, polo, marksmanship, and half the day in bed, And we make them into farmers for a hundred pounds a head."

* * * * * * *

His Lordship's college prospers and is crowded to the doors With "students" playing poker while the "servants" do the chores; What they do not know of farming they make up in other lines They are judges of tobacco and connoisseurs of wines; They are experts at the races and at sundry other games-- Though they couldn't tell the breeching of the harness from the hames-- Though they're far from home and kindred they occasion no alarm, _That was what their parents wanted when they sent them out to farm_.

PRAIRIE BORN

We have heard the night wind howling as we lay alone in bed; We have heard the grey goose honking as he journeyed overhead; We have smelt the smoke-wraith flying in the hot October wind, And have fought the fiery demon that came roaring down behind; We have seen the spent snow sifting through the key-hole of the door, And the frost-line crawling, crawling, like a snake, along the floor; We have felt the storm-fiend wrestle with the rafters in his might, And the baffled blizzard shrieking through the turmoil of the night.

We have felt the April breezes warm along the plashy plains; We have mind-marked to the cadence of the falling April rains; We have heard the crash of water where the snow-fed rivers run, Seen a thousand silver lakelets lying shining in the sun; We have known the resurrection of the Springtime in the land, Heard the voice of Nature calling and the words of her command, Felt the thrill of springtime twilight and the vague, unfashioned thought That the season's birthday musters from the hopes we had forgot.

We have heard the cattle lowing in the silent summer nights; We have smelt the smudge-fire fragrance--we have seen the smudge-fire lights-- We have heard the wild duck grumbling to his mate along the bank; Heard the thirsty horses snorting in the stream from which they drank; Heard the voice of Youth and Laughter in the long, slow-gloaming night; Seen the arched electric, splendor of the Great North's livid light; Read the reason of existence--felt the touch that was divine-- And in eyes that glowed responsive saw the End of God's design.

We have smelt the curing wheat fields and the scent of new-mown hay; We have heard the binders clatter through the dusty autumn day; We have seen the golden stubble gleaming through the misty rain; We have seen the plow-streaks widen as they turned it down again; We have heard the threshers humming in the cool September night; We have seen their dark procession by the straw-piles' eerie light; We have heard the freight trains groaning, slipping, grinding, on the rail, And the idle trace chains jingle as they jogged along the trail.

We have felt the cold of winter--cursed by those who know it not-- We have braved the blizzard's vengeance, dared its most deceptive plot; We have learned that hardy races grow from hardy circumstance, And we face a dozen dangers to attend a country dance; Though our means are nothing lavish we have always time for play, And our social life commences at the closing of the day; We have time for thought and culture, time for friendliness and friend, And we catch a broader vision as our aspirations blend.

We have hopes to others foreign, aims they cannot understand, We, the "heirs of all the ages," we, the first-fruits of the land; Though we think with fond affection of the shores our fathers knew, And we honor all our brothers--for a brother's heart is true-- Though we stand with them for progress, peace, and unity, and power, Though we die with them, if need be, in our nation's darkest hour-- Still the prairies call us, call us, when all other voices fail, And the call we knew in childhood is the call that must prevail.

"A COLONIAL"

(_In some circles the term "colonial" is still allowed to imply inferiority and dependence._)

Only a Colonial! Only a man of nerve and heart Who has spurned the ease of the life "at home," Only a man who would play his part In a new breed-birth on a distant loam; Only a man of sense and worth Who is not afraid of the ends of earth.

Only a Colonial! Only a man who has cornered Fate And matched his strength with the Unattained; Only the guard at the Outer Gate, Who holds for you what he has gained, That your children, seized of a better sense, May share with him Toil's recompense.

Only a Colonial! Only a man who has bridged the deep, And stained the map a British hue, Who builds an Empire while ye sleep And deeds the ownership to you. 'Tis the Viking blood which gave you birth That has driven him to the ends of earth.

Only a Colonial! Wherever the flag that ye think is great Is flown to the farthest winds that blow, Wherever the colonists ye berate In their blind faith-vision onward go, Ye may find ye hearts that are British still-- In your self-conceit do ye count them nil?

Only a Colonial! Rough as the bark of his forest tree His ways may seem to the fat and sleek, But ye owe your Empire to such as he, Though the hoar-frost glisten on his cheek; He has carried your flag where ye dared not go, And little ye reck of the debt ye owe.

Only a Colonial! No doubt he is raw on your social laws And grates on your sense of caste and creed, But he lives too near to Facts and Cause To study heraldry and breed; And, knowing man in his primal state, He scorns the claims of the social great.

Only a Colonial! The name in cheap contempt ye fling, Is not the whim of birth or chance, We well ignore the flippant sting, Or charge it to your ignorance; The colonist, and sons of his, Have made the Empire what it is.

LITTLE TIM TROTTER

Little Tim Trotter was born in the West, Where the prairie lies sunny and brown; Never was, surely, so welcome a guest In the stateliest halls of the town; For Little Tim Trotter was thoughtful and brave, And a lover of summer and shower, And Little Tim Trotter took less than he gave To the hearts that were under his power.

Little Tim Trotter would play in the sun, Or lie in the buffalo grass, And in fancy he saw the wild buffalo run And the brave-riding Indians pass; And with eyes that were deep as the infinite blue He would picture himself at their head, For no one so young as this hunter-man knew That the herds and the riders were dead.

Little Tim Trotter would lie in his bed While the fire-light played low on the floor, And strange were the thought that in Little Tim's head Played low like the fire at the door; The hopes that were his, and the wonders he knew, And the yearning he had in his heart, With the glimmering light of the future in view, And Little Tim just at the start!

Little Tim Trotter has heard the long call And has answered with joy and surprise, And the thoughts and the things that are hid from us all To-day are revealed to his eyes; And he rides in the van of his buffalo herd, Or in camp with his Indians brave; But Little Tim Trotter speaks never a word Through the mound of a little green grave.

THE VORTEX

He farmed his own half-section and was doing fairly well; There were seasons when the yield was rather small, But he always had his living and had always stuff to sell, And a little to his credit in the fall; But he wearied of his labor and he turned a wistful eye Where the City flashed its glamour on the stranger passing by; He was sick of hogs and cattle--he was sick of barn and sty, And the City sucked him in.

He was doing homestead duties--he was in his second year, And his quarter was the finest out-of-doors; He'd a neighbor in the township--and they called that pretty near, And he only had to eat and do the chores; Now he should have been contented with a kingdom of his own; He'd a fiddle and a rifle and a "bally gramophone" . . . He was sick of isolation, sick of living there alone, And the City sucked him in.

He owned a little country store and traded goods for eggs; He was salesman, buyer, manager and clerk; And the farmers gathered in his shop and sat around on kegs While they smoked and wished they didn't have to work; He was tired of tasting butter that he didn't dare condemn, He was tired of narrow farmers, he was tired of serving them, And he thought him of the City, where they close at six P. M., And the City sucked him in.

He ran a country paper in the town of Easy-go, And he hustled news and helped to "dis" the "dead"; He was editor and devil, he was master of the show, And the Union had no halter on his head; But he couldn't raise his circulation over twenty quires, He was tired of washing rollers, he was tired of building fires, He was tired of eulogizing men he knew were mostly liars, And the City sucked him in.

He practised law and real estate and owned a house and lot; He'd a client every once-awhile or so; He drove into the country when the summer days were hot, Or in winter for a sleigh-ride in the snow; He'd enough to live in comfort and he always paid his bills, But he tired of country customs and he wanted Fashion's frills; He was sick of fire insurance, he was sick of drawing wills, And the City sucked him in.

He'd a loyal congregation and his views were orthodox Though his salary was less than he was worth, He'd a personal regard for the future of his flocks, And he shared with them their sorrow and their mirth; But he longed for larger service and for bright companionship, And a stipend that would justify his wife to take a trip; And he read his resignation and he packed his little grip, And the City sucked him in.

She was just a country maiden with ambitions of her own, She could wash and she could churn and she could cook, But she longed for broader vision and a bigger, better zone, And she studied all about it in a book; She'd a home and she had kindred, she'd a roof above her head, She had time for work and leisure, she'd a chance to love and wed; But they saw her leave the village--they had better seen her dead-- And the City sucked her in.

Now there's one of them a millionaire and one of them in jail, And one of them is working on the street; And one is washing dishes, and one has "hit the trail," For six have drunk the sorrows of defeat; And one that's never spoken of where once she was supreme, And one--they found him floating in an eddy of the stream: They have paid the price of knowledge, they have dreamed their little dream: And the City sucked them in.

THE OLD GUARD

Knew you the men of the Old Guard? Men of the camp and trail; Guard of the van when Time began in the land of grass and gale, Of a sky-wide land they seized command where the mightiest prevail.

Who were the men of the Old Guard? Giants of strength and will, Trained in the school of hard-luck rule and daring to die or kill; Staking their lives, and their young, and wives, on the road up Fortune's hill.

Whence were the men of the Old Guard? Heroes of '82; From swamp and ledge and ocean's edge they came to see and do, And they failed at first, and the land they cursed, but they stayed and struggled through.

Hope of the men of the Old Guard? Little but hope was theirs; With empty hand in an untried land they clutched at wheat and tares, And home at night by the wood-fire light was answer to their prayers.

Way of the men of the Old Guard? What of their end and way? You may find their bones by the lime-white stones where the sun-dried sleugh-holes lay, For the Goddess Trade is a costly jade, and they were the ones to pay.

Joy of the men of the Old Guard? The joy of the brave and true; With joy they paced where Death grimaced and his icy vapors blew, And with steady tread they bore their dead with the faith of the chosen few.

What of the men of the Old Guard? Ask of the arching skies, The grass that waves on their leafy graves is lisping their lullabies, And the lives they spent are their monument and their title to Paradise.

KID McCANN

Where the farthest foothills flatten to a circle-sweeping plain, And the cattle lands surrender to the onward march of grain, Where the prairies stretch unbroken to the corners of the sky, And the foremost wheat fields rustle in the warm winds droning by-- There a crippled cowboy batches in the haunts of old-time herds, And the balance of the story is repeated in his words:

So you never heard how I lost my leg and hobble now on a crutch? So far as the story relates to me it can't concern you much, For it's really the story of Kid McCann and the price that a girl will pay For the fellow she sets her fancy on, as only a woman may; It isn't every girl who proves her faithfulness in flames, But fellows who listen with moistened eyes speak softly of other names.

Ned McCann owned the Double Star 'way back in the early days; He had come out here with a sickly wife and a kid he hoped to raise Where the climate suited the feeble-lunged, but life was scarce at its brim, Till a little mound by a prairie hill held half of the world for him; And his double love would have spoiled the child had she been like me or you, But her only thought was for her dad and the mother she scarcely knew.

'Course, she was bred to the ranges, and before she had reached her teens She could straddle a nag with the best of us and ride in her smock and jeans Till we all caved in, and she thought it fun to camp with the round-up bunch, And she shared her pillow and shared our sky and shared our pipe and lunch, And all of us mad in love with her, but she was only a kid, And she never dreamt what our feelings were, or the love-struck things we did.

But even girls grow older, and, though always kind and sweet, There came a day when she realized that we were at her feet, But I had never spoken, nor anyone in the camp, When in came a foreign puncher, a thoroughbred black-leg scamp, And we who had known her since childhood saw, in our unbelieving eyes, This wily sinner setting himself to carry off the prize.

Of course it couldn't be stood for, and little as I might like, It fell to my lot to intimate to him it was time to hike, Which I did in straightforward manner, in a way to be understood, And he looked at me with a sulky scowl that boded none of us good; But he did as he was ordered, to be absent before night, And we lost his form in the shadowy East as he cantered out of sight.